Farah leaned closer. “Do you trust me now?”
Izzy’s heart skipped a beat. He had never trusted a woman, apart from his mother and grandmother, Lady Wilona Melton. They loved him unconditionally. Trust implied love. This woman could never love him. She deserved a man who was whole, a man of her rank. He returned her gaze. “Oui, I trust you, Farah.”
A mischievous grin played on her lips. “Enough to allow me to enter your chamber this night and ease your pain?”
Some nameless creature tore around inside Izzy’s body, carrying every drop of his blood to his loins. Behind his eyes, naked shapes entwined and rocked. Farah’s exotic perfume filled his senses. He had died and gone to heaven. He blinked rapidly, trying to steady his rapid breathing. What was she saying? Was this some feminine wile learned in the harem?
Her eyes still mocked him. “You do not trust me. I want only to ensure you pass the night in peaceful sleep. I have oils to massage your hands. With your permission, I will go to the Still Room to retrieve them.”
Izzy hoped he was not drooling. He clung to her words like a drowning man to a raft, praising the saints for a safer subject of conversation. “Still room? Er—someone took you there?”
Farah’s radiant smile glowed like a beacon in the darkening shadows of the hall. “Oui, it’s an excellent Still Room. Madame de Giroux made sure it was kept clean. It required only a little dusting. There is a goodly supply of furniture polish and soaps. I took my preparations there after the midday meal and spent the afternoon sorting and organizing them. There were a few potions and salves already, which I checked and—”
She stopped abruptly and reached forward to dab the corner of his mouth with her napkin. “I’m sorry. I tend to talk too much about my medicines.”
Izzy swallowed hard. He had been enthralled by the rich glow of her voice as she spoke of her calling. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, knocking the bench over with a resounding clatter as he stumbled to rise. “Non! You don’t talk too much. Go to the Still Room. I will await you in my chamber.”
* * *
Farah did not feel the bite of the cold stone floor under her feet as she flew to the Still Room, her mind in turmoil. What was she thinking? The longing to put her hands on Izzy de Montbryce had got the better of her sanity. He was an important Norman noble from a powerful family. She was the bastard child of a foreign king who had spent her life as a prisoner. He was handsome; she was scarred.
She had offered the massage to help him, her only motivation to ease his pain. But that was not the whole truth. She wanted to touch him, everywhere. These wanton urges left her gasping for breath as she turned the handle of the heavy door of the Still Room. The door creaked on its hinges and she clung to it for a moment, lifting the candle high with her free hand to illuminate the shelf where the precious oils lay, ready to release their mystical powers.
She set the candle down on the bench. Her hand shook as she drew her finger in front of the row of vials. Which to choose? She decided to take a risk and bring the Garden of Love, and the infuser. She reached for the spikenard, then changed her mind. Too soon.
Gathering her supplies into a satchel, she retrieved the candle and proceeded to Izzy’s chamber, her heart thudding in her ears.
Fragrant Oils
Izzy sat on the edge of his bed, feeling foolish. An exotic maiden was coming to his chamber to put her hands on him and he had no idea what to do. Should he disrobe? Keep his boots on or take them off? Sit on the bed or in a chair? Let his rock hard shaft have its way, or control himself?
He shook his head. Forcing Farah was not what he wanted, and he doubted she would surrender her innocence willingly. If she had survived life in a harem and the streets of Jerusalem intact, he would not be the one to steal her maidenhead. He lay down impatiently on his back, fisting his hands at his sides, wondering if he had time to see to his own male needs before Farah arrived.
A tap at the door had him cursing. He tumbled off the bed in his haste to compose his clothing. “Entrez!”
The candle she carried illuminated her face as she peeked cautiously into the chamber. He had previously believed all angels had fair hair. She seemed relieved, perhaps because he was still clothed. He took the candle from her, snuffing it out.
“There is enough light with the torches and the firelight,” he rasped, wondering what had happened to his normally deep voice. He coughed to clear the persistent lump in his throat. “Shall I sit in a chair while you administer to me?”
She must think me an idiot.
The corners of her mouth edged up. “Non, Izzy. Lie down on the edge of your bed, after you remove your boots.”
She walked to the sideboard and placed a satchel on it. Despite his determination not to blush, he felt his face redden, but did as she bade. She returned to his side and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You won’t need your dagger—I hope.”
He laughed then at his foolishness, despite the warmth of her hand seeping through the fabric of his tunic, relieved she had eased the tension between them. He had never given a thought to his dagger. He was rarely without it. When his affliction flared, swordplay was beyond his capabilities. A dagger he could manage. He pulled it from its scabbard and handed it to her.
“I sometimes forget I carry it. It’s the only weapon I can handle when my—”
Why am I telling her this?
“And the sheath,” she insisted.
If she had sensed his embarrassment, she hid it well.
He undid the fastening, lifted his hips, and slid it from beneath his body. She tucked the dagger back into its leather sheath and whirled off to the other side of the chamber, the hem of her silken robe swishing on the wolfskin rugs. At first, he had found her eastern garb offensive, but now it seemed fitting, a part of her exotic nature.
He heard the sound of his weapon being placed on the sideboard. He turned his head to see what she was doing, but her back was to him.
She reached out one arm to a wall sconce, a twisted spill held in her elegant fingers. The sleeve of her robe fell back to reveal her bare arm.
He groaned inwardly and looked away, the smoke stealing into his nostrils when the spill caught light.
She busied herself. It sounded like she was washing her hands.
He licked his lips and closed his eyes.
An aromatic fragrance took the place of the odor of the burning sliver of wood. He felt an overwhelming urge to stretch and purr like a kitten. He pointed his toes and raised his hands above his head. Every muscle in his body pulled tight then relaxed. He yawned, feeling lightheaded.
“Give me your hands,” Farah whispered.
His eyes flew open. His mind had been a thousand leagues away, free of care for he knew not how long. He held out his hands. “Are you burning something? What is that aroma?”
She swallowed and smiled nervously. “It’s an infuser. I lit the candle in the bottom to warm the fragrant oil in the top. Do you like it?”
Like it? How to describe the feeling that had stolen over him—a soul-deep desire for the woman who held his hands carefully, lovingly. It was different from the hard lust he always felt around her. His need was still great, but he wanted to cherish her, love her.
He opened his mouth, but she touched a fingertip to his lips. “Hush, don’t talk. Close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
“I will try not to hurt you, but there may be some pain,” she whispered.
He breathed a contented sigh, resolved to give her the same reassurance the first time his shaft slid into her wet heat.
Farah’s firm fingers pressed into his forearm, kneading from elbow to wrist. She repeated the procedure with his other arm, working through the fabric of his shirt. He wanted to tear it off and have her put her hands on his flesh. His body warmed, his eyelids grew heavy. She curled his right hand into a loose fist, then put her fingertips in the webbing between the swollen knuckles and pressed, over and over and over again. She repeated the
massage with his other hand, pushing her thumb and forefinger into the pads at the base of his thumbs, massaging rhythmically.
She had cut her beautiful nails, for him. He felt only the firm, yet gentle pressure of her fingertips as she repeated the process again and again.
“Your nails—” was all he could stutter.
He heard the chuckle in her reply. “You would be in more pain had I not cut them.”
It was important for him to know. “They were red.”
“Yes, the Egyptians discovered how to color nails with henna and strawberries. I had no fruit, so—”
His mind wandered. He would plant strawberries alongside his apple orchard.
She turned his hands over and pressed her thumbs into the flesh of his palms. There must have been pain, but Izzy drifted on a cloud of euphoria where pain did not exist. Once or twice, he came partially to his senses, and licked his lips, wondering if he had snored. A current of something he could not name coursed through his hands. He stretched his fingers to their full length for the first time in a long time.
He opened his eyes to see Farah’s smile, then closed them. The next time he awoke, bright sunlight flooded the chamber, and she was gone.
* * *
Farah sensed Izzy would come to the Still Room when he discovered she was not in her chamber, nor in the Great Hall. Should she feel guilty that she had infused aromatic oils in his chamber that she knew were arousing? He would be angry if he knew. She had been too clever for her own good. Her desire to take away his tension had resulted in a different kind of desire flooding her body. Not allowing her hands to roam over his muscular frame had been torment.
But he had slept—a deep, peaceful sleep. She had carefully loosened the lacings of his tunic and leggings to give him ease, stealing a glance at the dark cloud of hair on his chest. Yestereve, she had itched to lay a tentative hand on the arousal that swelled in his leggings as the powerful oils took hold. She had gazed at him for a long while before returning to her chamber, longing to curl up on the big bed with him and cuddle against his broad back. He was a beautiful man when the scowl left his face.
His admission of his difficulties with a sword preoccupied her. She had a sword, one much lighter and requiring much less force to do its work than the Norman sword Izzy carried. She had never allowed anyone else to touch the shamshir since Georges had wrested it from ad-Daula’s grip.
She whirled round in surprise when Izzy wished her good morn. “Or should I say, good afternoon? I have never slept this late in my life.”
How long had he been standing in the doorway of the Still Room? Had he watched her as she daydreamed? He was not wearing gloves and she was elated he no longer hid his hands from her. She had given no thought to covering her scar. But his face was unreadable. She was thankful her dark skin did not reveal her blush. “You needed to rest after your long day in the saddle.”
He did not reply, but sauntered over to the shelf that held the vials of oil, lifting one down and holding the stopper to his nose, then moving to the next. The Arabic symbols would mean nothing to him. She stared at him, biting her lower lip. Did he suspect what she had done? Did he feel manipulated?
He turned to her and frowned when he found the vial he sought. “This is the one, I think. Am I right?”
Apprehension skittered behind her breastbone. “That is the oil I used last night. You have a good nose.”
He returned the vial to its place and smiled. “I will never forget that aroma.”
He wandered around the room, picking up this and that, seemingly unconcerned. What did he mean he would never forget the aroma? Was that a good thing? Was he pleased with the Still Room? She had decided she would gift many of the medicinals to Castle Giroux. She would not need them in Aragón. A busy castle needed a well-stocked Still Room.
He seemed to come to some decision and strode to the door, but stopped on the threshold, his back to her, his shoulders tense. “I thank you for your healing touch last night. I don’t want to impose, but I would ask that you come to my chamber again this eve.”
Did he think she would refuse? They both knew it was improper for her to be alone with him in his chamber at night, but she could not deny him, and who would know? “It will be my pleasure to attend you, Izzy.”
He let out a deep breath and left.
Farah gripped the side of the trestle table, willing the room to stop spinning. This night she would definitely take the spikenard.
Spikenard
Izzy paced his chamber. The evening meal in the Great Hall had set him on edge. It was impossible to sit beside Farah and not want her. He had feigned great interest in Aubin’s many suggestions regarding the tenant farms, his thoughts wholly on the woman at his side. Aubin’s ideas had merit, but the Steward surely sensed Izzy’s attention was not on the tenant farms. His father had told him it was obvious he burned for Farah. Aubin likely thought him a rutting fool.
He unfastened the sheath of his dagger and left off pacing to put the weapon on the sideboard. He splayed his fingers on the wood and put his weight on his hands. No pain! But, Dieu, they were ugly. Farah might not flinch at touching him, but how would she react if he fondled her breasts or wove his fingers through the curls at her mons? Would she recoil if he slid a finger inside her?
What was he thinking? She was coming to his chamber to massage his hands, just as she had the previous evening, though he had noted on awakening that she had loosened his tunic and leggings. It was hard to believe he had fallen asleep in the presence of a desirable woman and had no memory of it. The last he remembered was a feeling of euphoric arousal. Had she drugged him? He had imbibed nothing prepared at her hand, other than the pain relieving elixir she had made for him. The aroma? Was there something in the oil she had used?
He heard her footfall outside his door and quickly opened it before she knocked.
She gasped and took a step back, dropping her satchel. She knelt, obviously relieved that nothing was broken.
Izzy went down on one knee beside her. “Excusez-moi! I startled you.” He proffered his hand. “Let me help.”
She did not hesitate to accept his offer. “It was my fault. Clumsy.”
He rose and pulled her to her feet, his other hand supporting her elbow. They came face to face, hands clasped. Neither spoke. Fragrant aromas wafted from the satchel wedged between their bodies—the same as before, yet something more. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He had to kiss her. “You intoxicate me, Farah. You have me under your spell.”
She shuddered and broke away, hurrying over to the sideboard. She took her preparations from the satchel and lit the infuser with trembling hands. “I do not weave spells, Izzy. I seek only to help your body lose some of its tension.”
He could suggest a way to ease a lot of his tension, but kept silent. She had come to help him and his thoughts were filled with his desire to plunge his aching shaft into her wet heat. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, succumbing once again to the aroma of the fragrant oil.
“Please take off your shirt.”
Had he dreamt it? He opened his eyes. Farah stood at the side of the bed, an alabaster jar in her hands. “Take off my shirt?” he parroted.
Farah smiled, but seemed tense. “I have brought a special salve, made from spikenard. It is the precious ointment Mary used to anoint Our Lord. I am going to massage your body, with your permission.”
Izzy feared he might burst into flames. He sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled his shirt over his head.
Despite his affliction, he had kept his body fit and ready for battle, spending many hours a day in training fields. Normandie was a perilous place for those not prepared for its dangers. King Henry had imprisoned his rival, his brother, Robert Curthose, but there were still those who sought to oust him from his ducal rule over Normandie. And the Angevins to the south were an ever-present danger.
Farah quickly looked away when he bared his chest, but not before he caught the gleam of arousal
in her eyes. Did she feel something for him? He threw the shirt to the floor. She stooped to pick it up, but he grasped her wrist, forcing her to look at him. “Leave it!”
She nodded and touched her hand to his shoulder. “Lay back.”
The warmth of her magic touch filled him with an intense longing. He obeyed her command, fearing the rock-hard erection straining against the confines of his leggings would betray him without the long shirt.
* * *
Sweat trickled down Farah’s spine as she scooped the cool spikenard ointment out of the alabaster jar. Her mouth fell open when the powerful bands of muscle knotted across his broad shoulders as he raised his arms to remove his shirt. The saffron hue of the garment heightened the glow of his weather-bronzed skin. Her eyes fixed on the chiseled muscles of his chest.
She inhaled sharply, imagining him stripped to the waist in the training fields, fighting his pain as much as his opponent. It was one thing to train his father’s men. How much more difficult it must be for him now. He strove to assert his command over men who had sworn allegiance to another lord, a baron on the opposite, losing, side in the recent war with King Henry. Perhaps if he had a lighter sword, like her shamshir—
She could lend it to him. If he found it to his liking, the Hospitallers might surely procure one for him. Would the gesture offend?
She wanted to trace her fingers along the line of dark hair that ran down the center of his taut belly. She had used massage as a therapy for many of the broken soldiers brought to the Jerusalem hospice, but now stood transfixed, her anointed hands poised in mid-air.
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